


Many and Beautiful Things

by whatimages



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Implied Relationships, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-11
Updated: 2008-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatimages/pseuds/whatimages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time." Peter, Susan, Caspian: their intersections, divergences, recurrences.</p><p>(Can be read as containing implied sibling incest)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many and Beautiful Things

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to Liz! Originally posted at livejournal 06/2008.

_you will remember  
for we in our youth  
did these things  
yes many and beautiful things _

\- Sappho, Fragment 24A, Tr. Anne Carson.

  


Susan keeps a picture on her desk at the very back, almost outside the pool of light cast by her lamp in the evening. Over time, it ages, is joined by others, but is never disturbed except for weekly dusting. In the centre of the desk, her typewriter; beside it, drafts, manuscripts, occasionally a teacup. This is sometimes where she edits the manuscripts her boss (a short-tempered man too long in publishing) gives to her in manila envelopes. This is always where she writes. She keeps the clippings of the published pieces in a folder in the second drawer of her desk. The money is a nice supplement, an excuse for little vanities, but the paper and ink has its own charm.

Her husband never asks to see her articles, but he doesn’t need to; Susan has never needed confirmation.

She does not go to church, except for weddings, christenings and funerals; she has no need of that either.

Some mornings, the light will reach its fingers all the way back to the edge of her desk, to illuminate the faded photograph. Susan smiles then, looking at the picture—sadly, but still smiling; face bare and hair loose, joy and sorrow and memory. Alone, with the sun caught in her hair.

-

The grass is lush and green, like all of their perfect spring mornings condensed into this one eternal present moment. Peter and Caspian sit together on a gentle hill overlooking the sea. The wind carries the faint note of mersong. They both wear their swordbelts, but scabbard loops hang empty; they no longer have need of swords. Peter has found it surprisingly easy to adjust to movement without the weight of his sword at his side. Caspian is often silent, with awe writ large across his face.

“Was Narnia like this in your time?” he asks, gazing at the distant shapes of the merpeople flashing wet in the sun.

“A little,” says Peter. “Less perfect. And some things were different.”

Behind them, Lucy’s joyful shout rings out, and Edmund answers something indistinct. On the hill, their silence fills up with those differences.

The day is bright and the grass soft, but they still cast shadows. _Everything in its own time_ , Aslan had said once, a lifetime ago.

-

At first she weeps so hard she’s ill, alone in her flat with the phone improperly reset in its cradle.

She looks at her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror and knows there is no point in attempting to cover up her red splotches; nor does she particularly care to. She feels, for the first time in a long time, young; remembers two gilt letters and a heavy gold circlet.

She gives herself a day of barefoot huddling in her comforter, wracked by sobs until they’re dry heaves. Then she picks the phone up again and begins making arrangements.

-

A cold wind blows from the dying world. Aslan sits impassive, regal; delivers his last command. Peter hesitates, shivering in the cold, looking out on the barren waste that was once Narnia; it bears no resemblance to any of his memories now.

“The door, King Peter,” says Aslan, not without gentleness. “It’s time.”

Peter sets a trembling hand against the stable door and pulls it shut; the space between the movement and the click of the door in its frame is almost unbearable. He turns the key in the lock lovingly--a last farewell, his right and duty.

He turns to Aslan; there’s nowhere else to go.

-

“Susan, please. Please come with us.” Urgency and desperation are bleeding into his voice. There’s so little time, and so little they can do, and he is wasting what they have on the phone with her—not that he has a choice.

There’s a moment of static. Then, “I can’t, Peter, I’m sorry.” She doesn’t offer an explanation or an excuse and he almost wants to drag one out of her. But the door bangs open and it’s Edmund, carrying work clothes and shovels, and it’s time to go.

-

Rillian has his mother’s eyes. This surprises Caspian; it shouldn’t, but his son has been a long time under the earth. His eyesight is failing, but he still sees the pride of his line in his son. He seems terribly young; too young to take Narnia’s crown. But there is little enough choice left in the matter, nor time.

Rillian sits by his father’s bedside. Anxious lords and attendants come and go. Caspian looks up whenever someone new enters the room.

“Who are you looking for?” asks Rillian. “Tell me, and I will have them fetched immediately.” He is brimming with worry; Caspian wants to tell him that they are beyond worry and into certainty, but he will have enough people tell him that in the days to come.

“Some things are not in our power,” he says instead, sadly. This, his son already knows.

He doesn’t say anything after that.

-

“Edmund and Lucy can’t go back,” says Peter. No one else is around, so he cannot ask for confirmation of what he thought was the briefest flicker of her composure. But then, it could just be her; that’s Susan these days: always flickering, changing, restless. She’s never the same from one moment to the next.

“To Uncle Harold and Aunt Alberta’s? Surely they didn’t say anything that horrid to Eustace.”

He knew, of course, that it was futile. But there is something unreadable in her gaze that he is almost inclined to take as a kind of victory.

“I’ve heard he’s much changed. For the better.”

She gives him a look that is almost a glare, and he reproaches himself because she doesn’t answer to him, not now and not ever. The thought of her hating him, or forgetting him, makes him ill, so he lets the moment slide until they’re back at a kind of equilibrium, a silence.

He knows he should just leave it, thinks it after every time they don’t have this conversation. But the trouble is, he remembers the calluses on her fingertips, the way sunlight tangled in her hair. But he’ll take these silences as they flicker between one moment and the next; the second of possibility that flares up and fades. And then it’s just his eyes fixed on her face, and she almost smiles a little.

-

Lucy is joy itself, greeting all her friends with unqueenly hugs and making new ones just as quickly. Edmund, in an attempt to retain his dignity, clasps Caspian’s proffered hand. Edmund can tell immediately by his rough hands and hard grip that whatever intervening time has passed has not been easy. Even in his saltstained sailing clothes, Caspian is every inch the king. Edmund should know.

Caspian’s eyes slide over Edmund’s shoulder, to the water. It’s futile, but Edmund knows better than to say anything.

-

Her clothes have exploded over the inside of her room in a fit of pre-packing frenzy. Susan is trying to decide between dresses when Peter knocks on the doorframe. She turns, holding up the dresses for his appraisal.

“Which one do you think?” None of them are as nice as she’d like, but the war isn’t over yet so she’ll make due. Perhaps the blue one would look well if she replaced the collar.

Peter shrugs. He’s been grave and silent ever since the term ended, and has adopted a strange habit of leaning in doorways, as if he can never decide if he wants to be in the room or out of it.

“I’m leaving for the station soon,” says Peter.

Susan frowns. “You only just got home two days ago. I thought we would at least have a few days together.”

That shrug again. “Professor Kirke has been kind enough to take me on, I can’t exactly complain about his scheduling.”

“That old madman,” says Susan, not without fondness. “Peter, promise me you’ll at least have a little fun.”

That almost gets a smile out of him. “I’ll do my best. Though it sounds like you’ll have fun enough for the both of us.” His voice almost has an edge to it, but Susan decides she’s imagining it.

She grins widely. “It’s going to be such an adventure.”

He stiffens at that, looks at her peculiarly. “Yes, I suppose it will.” She has to wonder what’s wrong with him, if his declared preference for books in the countryside is not some mask for jealousy. But one look at him, and she knows it isn’t. He is full of strange silences; she catches him often at half-remembered angles and wonders if the words in his head have changed from what she used to know.

She folds both dresses neatly and puts them in her suitcase.

-

James Hastings, whom Peter has fought at least three times, is looking for a fight. Peter sits with Edmund under a tree (poplar; those dryads have silvery skin and green eyes) reading, doing his best to ignore the odious chav. James is talking loudly to his friends about the queerness of the Pevensies. Peter considers telling him to move or to stuff it, but his body still hurts from the fight a lifetime ago, and the stakes aren’t quite worth it.

He glances at Edmund, who nods imperceptibly. Peter shakes his head just as faintly, and returns to his book. Which is rudely plucked out of his hands by James.

Peter clambers to his feet somewhat reluctantly. “May I have my book back?”

“May I have my book back?” mocks Hastings in a nasal falsetto. “What is this shite anyway? Poetry? You really did go as queer over break as they say you did.”

Peter says nothing. Behind him, he hears Edmund’s breathing drop and his feet shift in preparation for a fight.

Hastings is going for broke. “Want your book back? Why don’t you take it?” Peter considers blackening James’ eye, but his shoulder still aches. He turns to sit back down, but the horrible sound of tearing paper stops him dead.

“Well, if it means so little to you,” says Hastings, and tears a page out of the book.

Peter lunges for it, which is exactly what Hastings wanted and what Peter was counting on. James’ fist comes cutting across, making for Peter’s cheek, but Peter ducks in and drives his elbow hard into Hastings’ solar plexus.

James is on his back, winded; leaderless, his friends glance nervously at each other and at Edmund, who has relaxed a little. Peter picks up his book and the loose page and returns to his spot under the tree.

 _Because I do not hope to turn again_ , says the torn page.

-

His surviving Lords take well enough to him; he has proved himself in battle at least and that counts for more than the fact that he was fighting their men.

But when he brings up the Narnians, it is almost enough to start a civil war. When he tells them of his intentions to restore Narnia to her former citizens, there is a long moment of silence. His lords shift in their chairs; he knows they are counting their dead and weighing them against the resurgence of a mere myth in a land they called theirs by conquest.

Finally, Lord Scythley speaks. “Sire, I do wonder if that is the best course of action, considering recent events. Perhaps we should leave them in their forests until they have time to—” he pauses, searches for the right world—“acclimatize.”

Caspian frowns. “And how long would you leave them starved in their forests? Five years? Ten? The land has been awakened and will not go gently back to sleep.” _Nor should it_ , he adds silently. “The Narnians _will_ have their country back.”

Emboldened by Scythley, several of his lords start shouting at once, about the rights of the conquerors and the Telmarine citizens, about their fathers’ spilled blood and _his_ father’s legacy.

“Silence!” he says sharply into the din. Their voices peter out with some reluctance. Scythley’s hand drops from his sword; it occurs to Caspian faintly that he will probably have to be removed.

His head hurts; this was not supposed to be this difficult. “The decision is out of your hands,” he says, and tries to sound convincing. “I leave you with that. Next time, I will expect suggestions on reintegrating the populace.” And then he gets up and walks out of the council chamber with measured steps.

As soon as the heavy wood doors bang shut, his shoulders drop. Cornelius appears out of an alcove, silently questioning. Caspian shakes his head regretfully. “It’s going to be far harder than I thought. I only hope no more blood is spilled over this.”

Cornelius sighs sadly. “If only the Kings and Queens of old had stayed with us a while longer, Narnia would have had an easier time of it.”

Caspian goes white; no longer relaxed or tired, he clenches his fists involuntarily. Cornelius looks at him with consternation. “Are you unwell, my lord king?”

With some effort, Caspian masters himself and drops his voice to avoid shouting. “I fought beside the Kings and Queens of old, and received my title from Aslan himself. I fought my own people for Narnia and I will continue to fight for her.” Cornelius shrinks visibly into himself, an impressive feat for a man of his girth.

“I apologize if I offended you, my lord king,” begins Cornelius, “I only meant…”

“That you doubt either my competence or my loyalty. From any other person, Cornelius, that would be treason.” Caspian takes a moment to let that sink in. “The Kings and Queens have left us,” he pauses, and the truth forces its way out of him. “And two of them may never return. So I suggest we all get used to that and start rebuilding.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks away to his chambers. They’re empty, but at least solitude is better than expectation.

-

Peter’s the one who tells them, Lucy and Edmund and Caspian and the clustered Telmarines. His manner is steady, assured. Kingly. Susan glances from face to face. The Telmarines are uncomprehending; Lucy is confused, Edmund upset. And Caspian, Caspian is shattered. His face, unguarded for a moment, is full of loss; she sees him see his future stretching out ahead of him. The likelihood of them returning in his lifetime is slender, even if they could.

Given one loss and spared another, she kisses him softly—something to remember him by (though she knows it will not be this kiss she remembers but the terse lines of his face considering battle strategies, or the distant gleam of his armour as he spared his uncle). But it is, for the moment, enough.

She turns; there’s Peter, watching, silent. Neither of them have anything to say, nor need of speech. Something like fondness touches the corners of his mouth, and she thinks that he, in his own way, understands.

She takes one long glance back when she walks through the portal, fixes the exact details of the scene in her memory (the foreign castle, the gathered citizens, Caspian, young and brave) and then she’s gone. They all are.

-

“Why?” asks Peter, his voice almost, _almost_ trembling.

“Narnia has taught you everything she can,” says Aslan, grave as ever. “It is time for you to return and live in your own world.” He looks at them each in turn. “Everything in its time,” he says, the answer to a question they haven’t asked.

Peter bows his head. His hand rests against the unfamiliar brick of the castle wall—not _his_ castle. Paravel is in ruins; it seems appropriate.

Susan says nothing, betrays nothing. She was once a queen, and though Aslan can read her heart as surely as if it was written on her face, she takes a kind of comfort in her composure.

They walk a little while in silence, but Aslan is not inclined to let her get away easily. “Something troubles you, daughter of Eve?” he says. Susan flinches. It’s been a long while since anyone called her that.

“Your word,” she says. “I would have your word that we are never to return.” It’s a presumptive request at best, and Peter shoots her a look that says quite clearly _are you mad_ , but Aslan in indulgent. He looks at her with his golden eyes and says, “You have my word, Susan Pevensie.”

Susan bows her head then--thanks and finality. She exhales, a sigh of loss and a little bit of relief.

-

The work of burial is enormous. Aslan’s How reeks of blood and death, but the country is far too restive to allow time for the dead. Aslan promises to protect them for a while, so Caspian may return to his castle and take up his kingship.

The ride into the castle is bright in the daylight. The sunlight glances off them, is tangled around them like a victory. Caspian rides ahead; behind him is Peter. Distantly, he can hear the joyful chatter of Susan and Lucy. They are much changed; the peace has transformed them from gravity and quietude to bright laughter. Even Peter smiles more; only Edmund is as silent as he ever was.

Some of his citizens watch from the windows as he rides into the castle, their eyes mistrustful. He thinks about empty beds and unanswered letters, and wonders exactly what he is going to do with a population of orphans and widows on all sides.

They have a week of preparation and rest. Peter seems determined to pour as much of his knowledge into Caspian as possible, and Caspian is only too glad to receive it. He learns much of Narnia’s history; some of it he knew as legend but the detail of Peter’s memory is astonishing. The truth of what he assumed was the embellishment of time is even more so--they were little better than children when they ascended to their thrones. It is then that Peter’s strange mixture of gravity and youth begins to make sense to him.

A good portion of Peter’s story telling is personal—anecdotes of dinners and mishaps and quiet evenings with his siblings. His words draw up the ghost of Cair Paravel; Caspian can almost see the palace’s white walls. He senses something else there, things Peter leaves unsaid, but he knows better than to pry.

When not with Peter he spends time with Susan, often in the garden that was his aunt’s. She plucks flowers and weaves them deftly together; no matter how many times he watches her do it, he still cannot understand how. When he asks, she smiles and says it’s a secret.

It’s only when Doctor Cornelius remarks slyly that the legendary Queen Susan is more lovely and more rare than even the stories tell that Caspian realizes he is courting her. It occurs to him, treacherously, that his claim to the throne would be much strengthened by the presence of one of the Queens of old at his side. But that is the sixth day, and he is crowned on the seventh, and then it turns out they’re out of time.

The day of his coronation is golden. Aslan pronounces him King of Narnia, a title so often unheard its rarity alone renders it precious. Susan, dressed in blue, stands to the side and applauds, smiling and full of hope.

From Peter’s hands, he receives the crown.

-

For the third time in a day, Peter wonders if he is going to die. The Telmarines are too many, too powerful and the Narnians are fading quickly--demoralized, untrained and outnumbered, but still his.

He doesn’t have to look to know they are with him: to his left, Susan and Edmund; to his right, Caspian.

Peter tightens his grip on his sword; Caspian exhales, a curiously loud sound in the thunder of battle. Shoulder to shoulder, they say nothing. Susan cocks an arrow and fires; it cuts a deadly red-feathered path right to the throat of a Telmarine soldier. Like that, they charge, together.

-

The vein in Miraz’s throat is beating wildly—exertion or fear, he’ll never know. His own blood runs hot under the heavy plates of his armour. His hand trembles, his muscles unused to such exertion.

The pause fills up with possibilities: Miraz’s head rolls to the left; it doesn’t.

Peter steps aside; his fingers brush Caspian’s over the sword pommel. Now it’s his decision to make, and Peter falls back to rest against an old stone; he watches.

The sword thuds into the ground.

Susan watches high on the ledge with the archers, hair whipping across her face, heart in her mouth.

-

She sees the grief in his shoulders. Walking the long, long way back behind him, she doesn’t even have to see his face to know how tightly his mouth is pulled, how white his clenched knuckles are. Everything is there, etched in his tense carriage.

It turns out he’s changed very little.

Barely a step behind him is Caspian, a mirror image of rage and grief. His bleeds out though: his hands shake visibly. He’s young still, she reminds herself.

When they draw swords, Susan is actually surprised. But then again, Peter is out of practice.

-

If their positions were less dignified, their arguments might be called bickering; not that there is much left of dignity hiding under the ground from a foreign occupier. But this place was once the Stone Table and they were once Kings and Queens (as Caspian may one day be), so there might be a little of dignity left to them.

Caspian moves the stones on their impromptu diagram from where Peter had placed them. “The castle is too well protected from that side, you’ll never be able to even get to the gate.”

Peter frowns. “And the centaurs and the minotaurs will be useless from the other side, if the cliff is as steep as you say.”

They have been through this at least three times, and Caspian is almost glowering. “If you send them in on the left, they’ll all be killed.” His voice rises, the iron edge of control rubbing raw at the corners of his manner; he stands, planting his hands on the table.

“And approach from the right and our best troops are useless. So what do you propose we do?” Peter, instead of shouting, drops his voice low, low enough to make Caspian strain to hear him. The torches on the wall crackle faintly in the resulting silence. Susan is struck by how perfectly they mirror each other standing across their rough diagrams, their glacial wills trying to carve out new circumstances from fortune

Susan touches Peter’s elbow, catches Caspian’s eye. He shoots her some impenetrable look; Peter moves ever so slightly so her hand is pressed against the warm inside of his forearm. Susan, in spite of the warmth of the room, shivers imperceptibly.

Edmund says: “What if we approach by air?”

-

Armed as she is with her bow, Caspian seems almost surprised that she was called _the gentle_. But there are other kinds of gentleness and many kinds of cruelty, and if they all live through this he’ll learn it in time.

Still, his youth, his uncertain braveries shine out against the drawn faces of the dwarves and centaurs and the terse sentences of the animals who can still talk.

Peter glances at him with a look Susan recognizes as pity; what she missed was the first wrench of recognition.

-

Her bow warms to her touch. The call had tugged at her heart; the bow tugs at her muscles and bones, reminds her of the swirl and chaos of battle. She fought less than Peter and Edmund, but enough to know the rush and pulse of a fight, and the reek and blood of the aftermath.

Still, when she sees her arrow sticking out of the foreign soldier as he falls into the water, her stomach clenches uncomfortably. A year is a long time to be away.

-

Edmund’s gold knight is oddly heavy. She remembers playing with these pieces in front of a fire; they hadn’t seemed unwieldy then. But this dull, dirt-stained knight weighs like lead in her palm.

“I think we did,” she says; her voice sinks into the stone.

Edmund takes the knight from her; Lucy takes it from him and doesn’t give it back.

Lucy wonders aloud about what else is buried under these moss-covered rocks; Susan doesn’t need to go looking to know.

-

Newspapers and cups of tea clutter the living room table. With no one set to clear it, the detritus of their meals collects unnoticed. Macready is, predictably, appalled. After that, they set up a rotation to collect the tea things; usually it’s Susan who does the reminding.

This is one such evening. It’s raining; Peter, for once, has abandoned his radio. Edmund and Lucy play chess; Lucy is winning.

“Peter,” says Susan, “it’s your turn to take the tea things back.”

Peter jerks back to the present moment, looking faintly annoyed. “What?”

“The tea things. It’s your turn to return them,” she repeats.

“There’s no need to take that imperious tone,” he says. Susan looks away, and makes no reply. But she does help him collect their dishes from where they’re scattered about the room. Their eyes meet over the tray; his are seething with something deep and aching. She wears her sadness were he can see it.

Edmund looks up from his chess game, sees Peter’s tense carriage, offers to deal with the dishes. Peter just shakes his head; it’s for the best--Edmund has already broken four plates. He’s forgotten how to move, the sound of his own voice. Peter too walks with a pool of space around him, as if he expects to need more room than he does. Susan notices, if no one else does; she keeps a tally of the minutiae of their differences, and how they seem less glaring with each passing day.

She watches Peter’s retreating back; when the door shuts behind him, she returns to her embroidery with a focused dedication.

Later that night, she reads in the small puddle of light cast by the desk lamp. Lucy is curled up asleep in the bed; Susan finds it hard to sleep next to her sister, who takes up far too much room for such a small figure. Susan's not used to having to share a bed like this, not at all.

A faint knock on the door disturbs the careful quiet of the room. Susan opens the door to find Peter, standing awkwardly in the doorframe as if he is surprised it could contain him. He doesn’t apologize; she doesn’t expect him to.

“I came to say goodnight,” he says instead.

Susan nods slightly; they both know the reason she was reading was not so much insomnia as expectation. They make new familiarities to replace the old ones; poor as they are, they are better than nothing.

“Goodnight Peter,” she says; this at least has stayed the same.

-

Ten years, and Susan feels every single day of them, but the Jubilee anniversary of their coronation is a bright day and the court is full of joy. They are already calling it a Golden Age; the children who were born into that unlikely spring are old enough to chase each other in the fields near Paravel and play at the war they don’t remember. She and Lucy, on a hunting expedition, rode through one such game only last week. It’s an odd feeling, Susan thinks, becoming a story.

The castle has been in a controlled uproar for a month in preparation. Susan is often left to deal with the particulars of ceremony and circumstance; Lucy confesses to finding the whole business interminably boring and Peter and Edmund have spent two weeks in close meetings with their counselors. Their northern borders are stirring. Susan had only to look at Peter’s face as he emerged from a consultation with Oreius to read the whole story in the lines on his forehead. For two weeks he has been carrying with him the certainty of another war. So Susan handles the mundane details of ceremony and the daily procession of subjects, and coaxes the brightness out of Peter when she can.

The Jubilee is three days of dancing and feasting and bonfires; the plain before Paravel is covered in brightly coloured tents. Even the red and gold lions adorning the flags dance in the breeze. Susan is in the thick of it with Lucy, dancing and laughing, watching their subject celebrate their reign. If anyone notices that the Kings are often absent, no one says anything where Susan can hear it.

The last night, ten years exactly to the day of their coronation, Peter emerges exhausted from the council chambers. He leans against the white marble wall as if he expects it to hold him up.

“I think there’s going to be a war,” he says, nothing in his voice but exhaustion.

“I know,” says Susan. The faint sound of music is carried with sea salt on the breeze. “But not yet.”

“No,” he agrees. “Not yet.”

Susan holds out her hand. “Your subjects are celebrating your rule and you’re missing the party,” she says gently.

Peter takes her hand and smiles, bright as that first spring morning, and Susan thinks it has been worth it after all.

-

The gold circlet is surprisingly heavy for such a delicate thing. It would be unseemly to slouch in her throne, so she sits ramrod straight even though her back aches from the effort and the rest of her aches from the too-recent battle.

The music starts, and Peter offers her a hand. It’s a welcome relief from sitting, so she takes it eagerly. His hands are warm, with unfamiliar blisters on his palms, to match the ones on her fingertips. Dancing is easier than she thought—familiar, like the first time she drew her bow. Peter’s steps are sure, and his manner is almost approaching regal, though she knows he must be nursing bruises and aches that far outnumber her own.

She smiles, spins and watches the lights twirl around her and turn back to Peter. He smiles; his kingly finery suits him, and she thinks she is beginning to see what Aslan saw in them from the start.

Her neck aches from the effort of supporting her crown, but by the end of the fourth day, she no longer notices.

-

Peter’s hand shakes a little as he takes the sword from Father Christmas. No one else sees it, and she let it pass without comment; Lucy doesn’t need another reason to be afraid, nor do the Beavers, kind as they are, need another excuse to be presumptively assuring.

She takes the proffered bow with steady hands. It’s a smooth, ambiguous curve, and though she knows little enough about such things, it feels well made. What frightens her more are her gilt initials on the quiver, like a promise someone else has made for her.

She glances at Peter and sees herself in his face: and now?

-

The back of the wardrobe isn’t wood at all, but a snow-covered fir tree. Susan can do little more than gape at the unlikely, ice-encrusted world. Peter is little better, looking around him with wonder writ large upon his features.

Susan glances behind them, at the slit of daylight in England still showing through the trees, and a little fear lodges in her chest. But Peter is gathering coats from the wardrobe with a surety that surprises her, so she lets her trepidation be momentarily quieted.

Together, they strike out into this strange and unknown world.

- _fin_


End file.
